


A Touch of (March) Madness

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-14 13:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14136594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma can't quite remember how it started or why it happened, just that it did and she wants to win. Desperately. To prove something. Probably.Or just to beat Killian. Either or. It doesn't matter.She's picked her teams and her upsets and she's got a string of trash talk ready for any potential on-court situation. They're not playing the game, but they're playing a game and this one might change everything.Or: The March Madness AU about questionably competitive friends and very strong college basketball opinions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Selection Sunday**

“Can you just pick?”

“No.”  
  
“No? Did you tell me that you can’t pick? Are you physically incapable of making your picks then? Because that would almost explain some of your choices last year.”  
  
Killian doesn’t lift his head up, keeping his eyes trained on the small stack of papers in front of him and Emma cannot sigh loudly enough. His lips twitch slightly.

“This is not that hard,” she says and it’s hardly the first time she’s told him that, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of a difference and it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night.

“You say that like you’ve got a title to defend, Swan,” Killian mutters. “This is a tried and true system with several minutes of actual research put into it and long-standing biases that have helped shape the sport for what it is.”  
  
“Overflowing with controversy?” Emma asks glibly, jumping onto the edge of the counter and kicking out towards him. “Deception? Disgrace?”  
  
“You’re trying to goad me into quoting something, it’s not going to work.”

She sighs, but she absolutely was and his pen sounds impossibly loud in the otherwise relative silence of the apartment. Mary Margaret fell asleep hours ago.

“That’s stupid,” Emma grumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out of Killian and she probably should have left already. She’s not sure why she hasn’t. Well, no, that’s a lie, but her apartment is far enough uptown that it’s probably better if she takes an Uber and she’s fairly certain they’re doing construction on the 2-train anyway.

Killian will probably make her take an Uber.

David’s probably got it on speed dial already.

“You really haven’t picked yet?” Emma continues and Killian shakes his head slowly, eyes darting up and she’s glad she’s already sitting down. “That’s also stupid. What’s your system, then?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You said you had a tried and true system, explain it then, o ye master of competition.”  
  
Killian smirks, one eyebrow pulled dangerously high and Emma knows she’s not going to get an answer. “You know, I’m starting to think your compliments are ringing a little hollow there, Swan. I’ll admit that’s disappointing, but, again, I’ve got a title to defend and I’ll probably feel a lot better when I beat you all this year. Again. As per usual.”

He tugs a _different_ pen from behind his ear – Emma dimly remembers something about color coding and possible upsets getting a different ink, but she’s fairly certain that it’s all conjecture just to annoy her. His tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth and it’s as infuriating as it is distracting because he’s absolutely right.

They’ve been at it for what has felt like actual days, crowding, as tradition dictates, onto the couch in Mary Margaret and David’s apartment for the selection show

And, as tradition dictates, they complain about every single seed and the pros and cons of Syracuse making it _again_ – ”They finished tenth in the ACC, that’s just insulting to the rest of the field. “We know, David.” “What even is an Orange? That’s a fruit. That’s not a mascot. That’s not intimidating me at all.” We know, David.” “If I were Mt. St. Mary’s, I’d sue.” “We _know_ , David.” – and eat a questionable amount of Indian food from the place that is, technically, closer to Killian’s apartment, but he knows their orders by heart now and he got Emma an extra samosa, so she’s not ever going to complain.

Unless it’s about how goddamn long it’s taking him to fill out his bracket.

It’s March and there’s still, somehow, snow on the ground in New York, but Emma’s just brought in some perp she’d been trailing for the last month and she’s got the next week off. It is, officially, the most wonderful time of the year.

And she can’t even really remember how it all started.

Technically, it probably started when she landed in the Nolan house several decades before, a vaguely jaded orphan no one had ever really wanted until Ruth Nolan did and decided, quite quickly, to give Emma the world.

And a brother she didn’t ask for.

Emma and David didn’t get along at first. They argued and bickered and they were the same age and he had that annoying, incredibly _nice_ friend who lived down the street in Storybrooke who, at one point, Emma was convinced could talk to birds.

Emma was a frustrated, bitter eleven-year-old and the _new girl_ again and Storybrooke, as far as she was concerned, was the absolutely worst. Until she tried to run away – and Mary Margaret found her.

It was Mary Margaret’s birthday and Emma couldn’t stomach the idea of another party and another town event at Granny’s and she slipped out the backdoor and...couldn’t get any farther. Mary Margaret showed up, exactly, twenty-seven minutes later to find Emma huddled in the corner of the alley, shoulders shaking and disappointment looming over her like a storm cloud and she did the single most Mary Margaret thing that Mary Margaret had ever done.

She hugged her.

And then went to bring her a slice of ice cream cake.

It got better after that.

Mary Margaret kept smiling and, presumably, talking to birds and Emma stopped picking fights with David just because he was there.

They were some kind of three-headed monster – never more than a few feet apart and speaking in blinks and tilts of heads when they had to and no one was surprised to discover that all three of them applied to the same school.

Xavier.

Naturally. They were already like the three musketeers.

And it was good and great and a slew of other adjectives for three musketeers who’d never really experienced the world, until David got assigned a new roommate second semester freshman year and Emma Swan hated Killian Jones with a passion strong enough to rival several suns.

He hated her right back.

Loudly. With a string of curses that regularly made Mary Margaret blush and left David smacking Killian’s shoulder, mumbling _that’s my sister, man_ under his breath.

He was smug and far too good looking and he did that thing with his eyebrow that made Emma’s stomach twist and she would show up in his room unannounced and laugh when he couldn't quite scrape by a passing grade in that one business class they both took together.

The good looking thing wasn’t important.

And the bracket thing had been Mary Margaret’s idea.

Naturally. Again.

“Maybe if we’re doing something fun, you won’t hate him so much,” Mary Margaret reasoned and Emma hadn’t argued, much, because it was a chance to beat Killian Jones at something and then make sure he never forgot about it for the rest of his life.

Only Killian Jones was, actually, really, really good at picking teams in the goddamn NCAA Tournament.

“He’s some kind of soothsayer, I swear,” Emma shouted, her own bracket torn to shreds  and she still hated him, but he was always around and Mary Margaret and David had started acknowledging the longing looks they kept sending each other’s way that January.

“I think he’s got an algorithm or something,” David muttered.

Emma spun on the spot, glaring metaphorical daggers because she didn’t have any real daggers, and Killian held his hands up in mock surrender.

“There’s no algorithm,” he said. “Just a very good gut instinct and proclivity to being right.”

“God, you’re such an ass,” Emma groaned. “I bet you’re the only person in the country who picked that upset.”  
  
He shrugged.

And defended his inaugural title. For three years straight.

No one ever asked if they wanted to keep going, even after college and jobs and _life_ , but no one asked if they all wanted to move to New York City either.

It just kind of happened.

And Emma just kind of stopped hating Killian.

He got under her skin. Or something less disgusting.

“Swan,” Killian says, jerking her out of memories and back to reality and she has no idea where she actually put her bracket.

“Yeah,” she mumbles and he’s smiling at her. Not smirking. No stupid eyebrow thing. A real, genuine smile and she wonders when that started making her breath catch and her eyes widen just a bit. “Here,” she adds when he stands up, eyeing her like she’s lost her mind. She might have. It’s probably with her bracket.

“I can see that. Although here seems a bit more physical and a hell of a lot less mental.”  
  
“Was that an insult? That sounded incredibly insulting.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, crossing the tiny space masquerading as a kitchen in three steps and his hand lands on her knee like there are magnets involved. “Not an insult,” he promises. “A genuine show of concern when you look like you’re trying to teleport back home.”  
  
“None of these words are making sense the way you’re saying them.”  
  
“Sounds like a sign.”  
  
“And an insult,” Emma hisses, kicking him in the shin. That feels a bit more normal. “Are you finally done?”  
  
“Mmhm.”  
  
“That’s awfully smug.”  
  
There’s the eyebrow arch.

“You’ve got quite a few opinions on my bracket, Swan,” Killian says and he’s started tapping his fingers on her jeans. Emma swallows. “I think it’s a defense mechanism.”  
  
“I think you’re refusing to talk about your so-called methods for picking teams because you know your good luck has finally run out and you’re nervous about what will happen if you don’t live up to expectations.”

She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth, Killian’s fingers going deathly still when her mouth snaps closed and Emma bites her tongue to stop herself from doing anything else quite that stupid – like crying while sitting on the counter in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment.

And maybe she knows exactly when she stopped hating Killian.

“Purdue,” he says, ducking into her eye line and Emma has to blink, at least, sixty-seven times because the whole thing is ridiculous.

“What?”  
  
“Purdue. I picked Purdue to win.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
Killian tilts his head. “Why would I lie about that?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea, “ Emma admits. “But I’ve kind of lost track of the conversation and...honestly, Purdue though?”  
  
“You have something against Purdue, Swan?”

“No,” she snaps, shoving lightly at his shoulder and his gasps like it actually hurt. His hand is still on her knee. “But, like, why?”  
  
“That seems to fall decidedly in the realm of giving away my plan.”

Emma groans loudly, drawing a set of footsteps that were absolutely eavesdropping on the conversation and David hands her the bracket she filled out hours ago as soon as he’s within arms reach.

Killian’s hand is gone.

That’s fine. It’s fine. Cool. _Totally cool_. God, she can’t believe she just thought that.  

“You’re going homer again, this year, huh, Em?” David asks, phone already out and she nods so he can order her the goddamn Uber.

She scowls, eyes darting Killian’s direction before she can stop herself and he’s trying very hard not to smirk at her. It’s not really working.

“I am going with a potential winner this year,” Emma corrects archly. “If it just so happens that I pick our alma mater, then, you know, so be it. It’s their year.”  
  
“Did the boosters get you to say that?”  
  
“How far do you have them going?”  
  
"Far.”  
  
“That’s not an answer,” she mutters, but it sounds more like a growl and they’re definitely going to wake Mary Margaret up at some point. “When did we all decide to descend into secrecy over our brackets? M’s told me as she was filling hers out.”  
  
“That’s because Mary Margaret is not trying to win,” Killian points out. One of the pens is back behind his ear, arms crossed lightly over his chest and there’s really not enough room for all of them in this quasi-kitchen.

Emma rolls her eyes, but it’s probably true and Mary Margaret regularly makes her picks based on nicknames, color schemes and the overall creepiness of mascots.

She’s never picked Providence. Ever.

“Whatever,” Emma mutters. “We’ve all reached a brand-new level of super strange competitiveness. I picked Xavier to win, not just because we all possess degrees from that school and they’ve now started calling asking for money, which I think is a sign of actual adulthood, but because they’ve got a good team this year and I genuinely believe they can win a national championship.”

“Because it’s their year, right?” David asks and he can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice. Emma flips him off. “Honestly though, Em, tell me something. Did you...did you rehearse that?”  
  
“Oh my God, you’re even worse than him.”

She jerks her hand in Killian’s direction and he makes a good show of being affronted, but there’s something lingering just on the edge of his expression that makes her wonder all sorts of things she shouldn’t even be thinking.

“These insults, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you do remember that Xavier lost to Villanova twice this year, right?”

“Villanova lost to St. John’s. At home. When they were the top team in the country.”  
  
“That’s a good point,” David mumbles, but Killian and Emma both wave him off and this is almost, painfully, normal.  
  
“Xavier still won the Big East outright,” she argues. “First time in like...I don’t know, whatever it was historic.”  
  
“Not the tournament and if you’re going to bring up facts, you need them to be accurate. That’s arguing one-oh-one..”  
  
“Why are you so against a Xavier run?”  
  
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m simply pointing out that Xavier has a habit of fucking up once they get to the later rounds. It happens every year.”  
  
“If you say tried and true I will get off this counter and punch you right in the face.”

Killian laughs, head thrown back and shoulders shaking and Mary Margaret makes noise from wherever she fell asleep. _Hours ago_. “I wasn’t going to,” he says lightly and maybe Emma’s got food poisoning from that extra samosa. It would explain whatever is going on with her brain and her thought processes and whatever her whole being does as soon as Killian’s hand lands on her knee. “These are just facts, Swan. And David picked Arizona.”  
  
“What?” Emma gasps, laughing as well when David starts cursing Killian to several different underworlds. “Oh my God, David, seriously? You want to talk about a team that disappoints regularly. Plus all that off-court shit! No way they even make the Sweet 16.”  
  
“They’ve got the best freshman in the country,” David reasons. “This is a sound choice. And I’m doing some kind of thing this year.”

Mary Margaret pads into the kitchen when Emma can’t bring herself to stop laughing, a blanket tugged tightly around her shoulders and sleep clinging to every one of her movements. “It’s a Wildcat movement,” she mumbles. “He’s picking Wildcat teams this year.”  
  
“What?” Emma asks. Killian is barely standing up.

“Wildcats. He's picking as many Wildcats teams because he thinks it’s funny.”  
  
“And because it makes sense,” David adds sharply, rolling his shoulder when Emma grips it to try and stay upright. “Or it would have if I’d been able to get it to work, but Midwest doesn’t have any Wildcats--”  
  
“What team,” Emma interrupts and Mary Margaret drops her blanket when she starts laughing, shouting back _Wildcats_ on cue.

David rolls his eyes. “Anyway,” he continues pointedly. “I got three of four, so that’s a majority and it’s totally going to work because an Arizona and Villanova final is not only probable, I’m guaranteeing it.”  
  
“Wow, talking a big game.”  
  
“I’m confident. That’s all. And I’m tired of Jones winning every goddamn year, so I’m willing to do whatever it takes.  
  
“It’s not going to work,” Killian says easily and the other pen is in his back pocket. Emma can feel Mary Margaret staring at her. “I’ve got a system. And I’ve got consistency on my side. And nicknames or mascots or whatever don’t have anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, so you’re always saying,” David grumbles. “You know what? Get out of my apartment and take your research with you because I’m not walking down the hall to put that in the garbage disposal.”  
  
“I mean, it should probably be recycling, right?” Emma asks, sliding off the counter and she’s suddenly far closer to Killian that she anticipated. She’s ninety-two percent positive he moved.

“You can get out of my apartment too. Your car is here, anyway.”  
  
“Ok, well, that’s rude, but thanks for the ride. Go back to sleep, M’s.”

Mary Margaret salutes, already halfway down the hallway and Emma glances Killian’s direction before she can lose her nerve. “You want a ride?”  
  
He blinks, like he’s trying to make sure he heard her right, and Emma chews on the inside of her lip, willing her stomach to act like an actual part of human anatomy.

He nods before he answers.

“Yeah, sure, Swan,” Killian says, grabbing his stack of paperwork and his ridiculous number of pens and they both sit in the backseat of an Uber on their way uptown.

They don’t say anything for the first dozen or so blocks, a companionable silence Emma never would have considered possible when she was a sophomore in college and spent most of her free time trying to figure out what Killian’s _deal_ was.

She’s still not entirely sure she knows.

It’s a work in progress.

Or something.

 _Whatever_.

“I can hear you thinking,” Killian says, gaze flitting her direction. “It’s very loud.”  
  
Emma bites her lip – mostly so she won’t smile and he won’t lord _that_ over her for the rest of time. “Is it distracting?” she asks, but it feels like a much bigger question.

“No. Just general curiosity.”

“Because you claim to hear my thoughts. That’s...you know that’s weird, right?”  
  
“Only because you’re making it weird,” Killian challenges and they’re at his apartment already. Emma’s not disappointed by that. God, she needs to sleep for the entire week she’s off. She can’t. She’s got basketball to watch.

And a bracket to defend.

“God,” Emma sighs, rolling her head on the back of the seat and top of her hair is damp from resting on the window. “Do you have to be right about absolutely everything? Or do you just get a kick out of arguing with me?”  
  
“Did you just use the phrase _get a kick_ , Swan? That’s...did we teleport in this Uber?”  
  
“Get out.”  
  
“I’m asking a genuine question.”  
  
“And I’m telling you to get out.”

He blinks, lips pressed together tightly enough that it’s difficult to make them out in the dim light from the street lamps and the Uber driver is getting more and more pissed off by the second. And suddenly it’s like _that_ day and Killian’s face does something stupid, softens or settles more into him, like he’s seeing Emma for the first time and pleasantly surprised to find her there.

She’s going to bite her lip in half.

“You know I’ve got Friday off,” he says and maybe they did teleport.

Emma lowers her eyebrows, tilting her slightly and if he doesn’t stop smiling at her she’s going to get out of the Uber and walk the rest of the way home. “What does that mean?”  
  
“Are you confused by the words or…”  
  
“God, stop being a dick!”

The Uber driver snorts.

Killian glares at him.

“I’m saying that I know you caught that guy last week and now August requires you to take at least five days off to recoup or make sure you actually get the kind of sleep a human being needs to function. Which means that you, presumably, will be home screaming at your TV--”  
  
“--I don’t scream at my TV.”

“Swan, sometimes you get up and actually try and play defense with the team. It might be my favorite thing you do.”  
  
“Ok, well, if this is just some twisted way for you to make fun of my questionable interest in college basketball then…”

Emma trails off when she notices the look on his face – another expression she’ll probably file away in that metaphorical file she’s absolutely, positively not keeping because they’re kind of friends now and that’s cool.

She can’t believe she just thought the word cool.

“What?” Emma asks, the word coming out like a whisper and her lip is bleeding.

“I wouldn’t do that, Swan.

“Anymore.”  
  
He shakes his head, the muscles in his throat moving when he swallows and maybe whatever place they’ve teleported to has slightly brighter street lamps because the blue in his eyes seems to get sharper when he looks up at her.

“No,” Killian says. “Not anymore.”  
  
“So...was there an offer or an invitation in there or…”  
  
He grins. “I’ve got Friday off and I know you’ve got Friday off and I’ve got a better takeout selection than you do.”  
  
“See, you’ve just gotta add in those last, little insults don’t you?”

“You blink quicker when you get angry, did you know that?”

Emma shoves at his shoulder, like that will do anything at all, but he’s always had impossibly quick reflexes and she’s not even surprised when his fingers wrap around her wrist. She’s a bit more surprised by whatever her heart does in response and she’s fairly certain it’s the most he’s ever touched her in a 24-hour span. Or, like, a two-hour span.

“You want me to come here on Friday so we can watch basketball together?” Emma asks skeptically. Killian’s nodding before she can get the question out, eyes a hint wider when he tries to speak without actually speaking. “I think your team plays on Friday.”  
  
“I’m aware of the schedule, Swan. Xavier does too.”  
  
“It’s weird that you’ve memorized it already.”  
  
He hums noncommittally, but he really does have better takeout near his apartment and an exceptionally good coffee maker that Emma will undoubtedly use several times and, well, it might be kind of nice.

They’re friends now.

They spend time together. On their own. It’ll be fine.

Cool. It’ll be cool. _Cool, cool, cool_.

“Was anyone actually going to get out of the car or….” the Uber driver starts and Emma can’t quite mask her laugh. “Because I’ve got other fares I could be taking and…”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving,” Killian promises, twisting behind him to open the door and it’s fucking freezing outside. He glances back at Emma, one leg on the sidewalk already. “Friday?”  
  
There’s something just on the edge of that too, but Emma can’t quite figure it out and the Uber driver is the single most impatient person on the planet. She nods before she can come up with any of the reasons it will not be cool.

“Yeah,” she says. “Friday.”

He flashes her a smile, rolling his eyes at whatever noise the Uber driver makes when he kicks at the door and Emma’s fairly positive she doesn’t mishear him when he leaves, the quiet _see you later, love_ ringing in her ears for the rest of the night.

* * *

**The Play-In Games**

**David Nolan, Tuesday, 7:53 p.m.:** Did we know that LIU Brooklyn was in the tournament?  
  
**Emma Swan, 7:54 p.m.:** It’s a play-in game it doesn’t count.

 **David Nolan, 7:55 p.m.:** Also, what channel is TruTV?

 **Emma Swan, 7:55 p.m.:** I’ll repeat myself.

 **Mary Margaret Blanchard, 7:56 p.m.:** They’re playing a game, it definitely counts! They’re doing their best. And almost winning, kind of.  
  
**Emma Swan, 7:57 p.m.:** They are not almost winning. Where is LIU in Brooklyn? Shouldn’t it be...on Long Island.

 **Emma Swan, 8 p.m.:** ????

 **Killian Jones, 8:01 p.m.:** It’s right near Barclays.

 **Emma Swan, 8:03 p.m.:** Why do you know that? Who knows that? No one. No one knows that.

 **Killian Jones, 8:04 p.m.:** I know everything. You know this, Swan.

 **David Nolan, 8:07 p.m.:** Guys. Seriously. This is a group text.

 **Emma Swan, 8:08 p.m.:** Did you pick them?

 **Emma Swan, 8:15 p.m.: …….** Honestly, Jones? The tournament has started you can tell us who you picked.

 **Emma Swan, 8:17 p.m.:** Killian, seriously!

 **David Nolan, 8:18 p.m.:** This. Is. A. Group. Text.  

Emma scowls when LIU Brooklyn shoots like garbage in the second half and loses its opening-round game and she’s already picked one team wrong, which doesn’t seem like a very good sign. Her phone dings almost immediately.

 **Killian Jones, 8:59 p.m.:** I didn’t pick them. Did you?

Blackbirds are stupid mascots.

 **David Nolan, Wednesday, 11:37 p.m.:** WHAT THE FUCK IS AN ORANGE, ANYWAY?!?

 **Killian Jones, 11:38 p.m.:** Bahahahahahahahahaha.

 **David Nolan, 11:40 p.m.:** Screw you, Killian.

 **Emma Swan, 11:42 p.m.:** Did you put a period after your maniacal laughter?

 **Killian Jones, 11:44 p.m.:** Proper punctuation is important when you’re lording your basketball-picking ability over your lesser competition, Swan. And I take offense at maniacal. It was reserved, at worst.

 **Emma Swan, 11:44 p.m.:** Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?

 **Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.:** The Pac-12 is garbage. ASU was never going to win. Syracuse plays in the ACC. Strength of schedule is important.

 **Killian Jones, 11:45 p.m.:** Plus, no college kid knows how to play against a zone.

 **Emma Swan, 11:46 p.m.:** You shoot out of it. That’s just...that’s basic.

 **Killian Jones, 11:47 p.m.:** Tell Arizona State that.

 **David Nolan, 11:49 p.m.:** This. Is. A. Group. Text.

* * *

**The First Round, Thursday, Day One**

Emma sinks into the corner of her couch, hair still a bit damp from the shower she probably should have taken hours before, but she’s officially in _basketball mode_ and _basketball mode_ requires her to be as lazy as humanly possible while watching college-age kids be the exact opposite for the next twelve hours.

It sounds weirder out loud than it does in her head.

LIU Brooklyn was the only misstep in her First Four picks and, really, that was more of a technicality because most brackets don’t require First Four picks, but they’re all a bunch of over-competitive weirdos and they do it anyway.

She still has no idea what Killian’s bracket looks like.

It’s probably frustratingly accurate, but there are sixteen games that day which means there are sixteen chances for him to be wrong, which is really all she wants.

And maybe she’s the most competitive weirdo of all.

Because Emma really, really likes winning and she liked it a hell of a lot more the one time she beat Killian the first March after undergrad, but she doesn’t hate Killian nearly as much as she did before.

It's a very confusing sentence and a very confusing thought and she needs to watch some of these games to distract her from whatever her mind has been doing over the last few days – replaying that Uber ride and the slight shake in his voice when he asked about Friday, like he was scared she’d say no or like, maybe, it meant something good and big and important and it felt a bit like déjà vu because his voice had done the same, exact thing when she decided she didn’t hate him.

He’d just defended his championship, making sure to point it out as often and loudly as possible, a few days into April and Emma desperately needed the Benadryl she knew David kept in a box under his bed in the apartment just off campus.

She considered going back to her own room – only a few blocks away with her own stock of Benadryl because pollen seemed to exist only to ruin her life every April – but Emma was fairly convinced her nose was about to fall off and she was walking through the door before she even realized she’d taken her key out.

And Killian nearly ran her over as soon as she walked through the threshold.

“Swan,” he slurred, eyes a bit glazed and an actual bottle in his hand. He wobbled when he stopped to glare at her, a sneer to his lips that had become almost _too_ familiar at that point. “What are you doing here?”  
  
Emma shook her head, kicking back to close the door and Killian winced when it slammed into its frame. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she asked, reaching out to tug the bottle out of his hand. He tightened his hold. “It’s like...two in the afternoon.”  
  
“Ah, well, then we’ve clearly fallen behind schedule. You want a drink, love? There’s a few options in the kitchen, although I’m not willing to share the rum.”  
  
“Not your love,” she said, mostly out of habit and he stumbled when she took another step towards him. “Seriously, what the hell is going on with you? You can’t even stand up straight.”

“That, my dear, is the point.”  
  
Emma glared, pressing her tongue on the inside of her cheek and it probably would have been intimidating if she didn’t sneeze very loudly two seconds later. It shook through whole body, leaving her sniffling and red-nosed and Killian was staring at her like she’d been replaced with a cyborg as soon as she lifted her head up.

“What?” Emma grumbled, sniffling again.

Killian opened his mouth, only to close it three more times and Emma realized, rather suddenly, that they’d never really had a conversation about….anything. They’d circled around each other for more than a year and had almost gotten the hang of small talk when David and Mary Margaret started making eyes at each other, but there was no depth to any of it.

She’d never asked about his hand – the prosthetic at the end of his left arm catching her attention the very first time she met him, but David had glared at her and the questions got caught in her throat and no one ever gave her an explanation. She’d never even really asked how he ended up at Xavier or why he was a year older than all of them with far fewer credits and he kept taking six classes a semester.

She hadn’t really ever bothered.

That felt decidedly….wrong.

Killian had, simply, come blazing into their lives like some kind of dying star or possibly a comet and Emma didn’t know enough about space to make those kinds of comparisons, but the dying part seemed particularly apt at the moment.

“David’s not here,” Killian said softly, a note of _something_ that might have been disappointment in his voice. “He and Mary Margaret had class and then they were going somewhere to be painfully adorable so…”  
  
“So you decided to drink your entire alcohol supply?”  
  
“No, no, that had nothing to do with their proclivity to romance. Quite the opposite, in fact.”  
  
“That was a lot of very fancy words for a guy who’s having a difficult time staying upright,” Emma pointed out, tapping her finger lightly on his chest and it looked like he’d frozen. “Honestly, you’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with you?”  
  
Killian tilted his head, gaze a hint sharper than it had been a moment before and Emma bit her lip. Tightly. “It’s not exactly like we’re friends, Swan. Or even acquaintances, really. You tolerate at me, at best.”

“Ok, well, you don’t really like me either,” Emma argued. “You think I’m…”  
  
“What? Please. Tell me exactly what I think about you.”

She stomped her foot, growling low in the back of her throat and Killian did something absolutely ridiculous with his eyebrows. “Fine, fine,” she hissed. “You want to get blasted in the middle of the afternoon, fine. I couldn't care less. I came here to steal some of David’s allergy medicine because the world is attacking me. So I will go get that and then you can get back to your one-person pity party of whatever it is you’re being pitiful about.”

Emma nodded once, like that had won whatever argument they’d been staging, stepping around him towards David’s room, but she barely made it one step before Killian’s fingers wrapped around her shoulder.

“Did you say the world was attacking you?” he asked and it was the last question she expected.

“Yeah. I’m, uh...super allergic to pollen. Spring is, like, my own personal brand of hell.”  
  
Killian hummed, taking another swig of whatever was in the bottle – the label had peeled off at some point – before offering it to her. “It’s almost better than Benadryl,” he said and it felt like a much bigger offer.

She took the bottle and the rum – it was rum, _incredibly good_ rum that probably cost a questionable amount of money – shivering when it burned the back of her throat and settled in the pit of her stomach and it almost felt like she could breathe a little better.

“He really never told you?” Killian continued softly. “David, I mean. He knows...the whole thing.”  
  
Emma shook her head. “David wouldn’t do that. Not if you didn’t want him to.”  
  
“Well, I mean, they’re dead, so it’s not as if they’re going to be offended by me talking about them behind their back.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“There really is almost a reasonable explanation for the alcohol.”

“Ok,” Emma muttered, nodding in the direction of the second-hand couch in the corner of the room. “But we really should sit down for this because you honestly look like shit and I don’t know that I’ll be able to do anything if you fall over.”  
  
Killian scoffed, but he didn’t argue and they spent the next forty-six and a half minutes sitting on opposite sides of the couch, passing the bottle back and forth and he told her everything.

He told her about Liam and Milah and the accident that took both of them at the same time and how he was fairly positive it was some kind of absurd joke when he woke up in the hospital bed, eighteen years old with one less hand than he expected.

He told her about getting out of that town and trying to decide what do next and how to honor both of them without living in the past.

It wasn’t easy, but there were classes and loans and his brother always thought Killian could do anything, so he figured he might as well. He ended up at Xavier by chance, a scholarship that just sort of landed in his lap and a business program that was good and great and a slew of other adjectives that might have included insane because--

“Liam would have been thirty today,” Killian said, taking his time on the words and he kept staring at a piece of string on the one couch cushion in between them. “And he would have hated that I did…” He waved his hand through the air, as if that was enough description, smiling softly when Emma pulled the bottle back to her side of the couch. “But I woke up this morning and I got another shit grade in that marketing class and I can’t…”  
  
“So then don’t,” Emma shrugged. Her words felt heavy, hanging on the tip of her tongue and jumbling in the air and Killian stared at her like she was that cyborg again.

“What?”

“Don’t,” she repeated. “Do something else.”  
  
“Like...what?”  
  
“Anything. You’re minoring in something, right?”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, groaning when she wouldn’t relinquish control of the bottle. They’d put quite a dent in it. “Classics,” he said. “You know...Greeks and myths and that kind of thing.”  
  
“So do that.”  
  
“That’s not really how it works, Swan. And this is sounding incredibly out of character. I wasn’t aware you were so positive.”  
  
“Ok, first of all, that’s rude and, second of all, I have known Mary Margaret for nearly a decade now, so some of that is bound to rub off. And third of--”  
  
“--There’s a third thing?” Killian asked incredulously and he grinned when Emma stuck her tongue out.

“There would be if you’d let me finish,” she muttered. “Everything you’ve just told me about your brother makes it seem like he was Mary Margaret levels of supportive, right?” Killian hummed again. Emma rolled her eyes. “So then he thought you should major in business because, what, there were careers in it?”  
  
Killian shrugged.

“God, you’re the most frustrating drunk in the world, you know that? We’ll go with that theory for now because there are also jobs in the classics and you could...I don’t know, you could teach or something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We are going in circles.”  
  
Killian shook his head, like he was trying to work through some more fog or metaphorical cobwebs and Emma felt the muscles in her face shift. She was smiling.

She was smiling at him.

“I just think you could do it,” she said, absolutely ignoring whatever Killian’s entire being did as soon as the words fell out of her. She took another swig of rum. “And I bet your brother would have too. You shouldn’t have to be worried about a marketing grade.”

He didn’t say anything for several days, at least, and Emma had never been particularly good at patience and she wasn’t entirely prepared for--

“I’m sorry,” Killian whispered, leaning forward to rest his hand on one of her knees. Emma suddenly felt far more drunk than she was. “For, well, for all of it. Being a dick and...being a dick.”

Emma’s smile widened, ducking her head and she sneezed when her hair brushed her nose. “Yeah, me too,” she said. “Truce?”  
  
She stuck her hand out and, eventually, she’d blame the rum and whatever he was doing with his face, but in the moment it made a hell of a lot of sense and Killian’s fingers were warm.

“Truce,” he echoed.

Emma never got the Benadryl, but they finished the rum and Mary Margaret’s laughter woke both of them up where they’d fallen asleep on the couch.

He changed his major two days later.

And, now, Emma can’t stop thinking about _that_ day and what it meant or, maybe, means because things got better, but Killian is still David’s friend and Emma is still David’s sister and she’s definitely thinking about this way too much.

Particularly when there’s an upset brewing.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, reaching for her phone because she totally picked this one. She absolutely picked this one. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” she mutters and patience is still not one of her strong suits.

He picks up on the third ring.

“What?” Killian whispers. “Is someone dead?”  
  
Emma nearly drops her phone. “No, what? Why?”  
  
“Swan, it is four in the afternoon. I have class. I am in class.”  
  
“Why did you answer your phone, then?”  
  
“You called me, love,” he says like it’s obvious and it kind of is and it makes every single one of her internal organs do something stupid. “So just to double check. No one is dead? David and Mary Margaret are fine?”  
  
“Presumably.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Yes,” Emma sighs. “David and Mary Margaret are both fine. I just...well, it sounds stupid now. Are you actually in class? Aren’t there rules about that?”

“In a normal class, sure, but I’m a fantastic professor and my rules are much cooler than a normal class. And,” he adds, ignoring her not-so-quiet laughter completely. “It’s March, Swan. Early’ish March. There are midterms, you know.”

“Is that why you have tomorrow off?”  
  
“Mmmhmmm.”

“Oh, shit, does it make me a bad friend that I didn’t know that?”  
  
“I don’t expect you to have my schedule memorized, love.”

That’s two loves in the same conversation and, maybe, three in the last week and it’s not like Emma’s counting, but she isn’t _not_ counting and--

“Yeah, but I feel like I should know that,” she continues. “Are you talking on the phone with me in the middle of a midterm? Because that’s also kind of shitty.”  
  
“I went outside. Figured if there was some kind of death notice imminent then I should be away from the prying eyes of undergrads.”  
  
“That is...morbid.”  
  
Killian laughs and Emma’s organs are just, like, on fire at that point. “I’ve been reading a lot of essays about the Underworld recently. It’s put me in a mood.”  
  
“Maybe I should bring more alcohol tomorrow.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say no, although we probably should wait until the later games for that, don’t you think?”

“Look at you, a picture of responsibility,” Emma says and her cheeks are starting to ache. She refuses to acknowledge the symmetry of her thoughts and their current conversation and he never brought it up again.  

He just changed majors and started taking more classes and went to grad school and he had a satchel now. She teased him about it mercilessly.

“Sometimes,” Killian admits. "Why’d you call, Swan?”  
  
“Did you pick Loyola Chicago?”

“Excuse me?”  
  
“First-round games. Loyola Chicago. Did you pick them beating Miami because they just beat Miami. I know you didn’t pick this so--”  
  
“--Of course I did.”

Emma blinks. “What?”  
  
“I definitely picked them. I think they could make a run. How’d they win?”  
  
“No, no, you don’t get that,” Emma mutters and he’s laughing again, free and easy and she wishes he were there. So she could kick him. Or something else. _Whatever_. “You can’t be serious. What the fuck is Loyola Chicago even?”  
  
“Presumably it’s a school,” he reasons. “And you might want to watch that, Swan because my research shows they’ve got some kind of nun on their side and I don’t think you want to jinx yourself like that.”  
  
“I’m going to murder you.”  
  
“You’ve just jinxed it.”

Emma makes some kind of noise in the back of her throat and it’s not particularly human, but it draws another laugh out of Killian and at least she also picked the upset. “I can’t believe you researched Loyola Chicago,” she says. “Why?”  
  
“Swan, we’ve been over this, there’s a system and it’s tried and true and I’m sharing it with you. Also Miami has been streaky all season. That was an easy upset.”

“Of course it was.”  
  
“Anything else to report?”  
  
“Don’t you have some kind of internal update that lets you know when your bracket stays perfect? That way your ego never takes a hit?”  
  
“That’s rude, Swan. And, no, I don’t. C’mon, update me.”

She does – spends the next five minutes giving him a run down of the early games and the pros and cons of Trae Young leaving Oklahoma after his first year, of which there are many because _his jump shot is off sometimes, Killian, you know it, I know it, NBA front office knows it_ and she’s almost surprised when he mutters that he has to actually go acknowledge his class eventually.

“Oh, right, right, right,” Emma stammers, but she’s ninety-nine percent positive Killian is still smiling. “And I think Collin Sexton is a better freshman than Trae Young and whoever that Arizona kid David was talking about.”  
  
“I’ve got no doubt you’re right, love,” Killian says. Her body, possibly, explodes. “You want to tag-team David when Arizona gets upset later on tonight?”  
  
“Arizona’s not going to get upset later on tonight.”

Her phone dings as soon as the Arizona game ends and Emma’s watched enough basketball that her brain is starting to get a bit muddled, but she can still spot a monumental sporting moment and Arizona got upset.

By Buffalo.

 **Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:57 p.m.:** Please do not say anything. He threw the remote.

 **Emma Swan, 11:57 p.m.:** Uh oh.

 **Mary Margaret Nolan, 11:59 p.m.:** I’m serious, Emma.

 **Emma Swan, 12 a.m.:** I said no words.

 **Killian Jones, 12:02 a.m.:** I will gladly say words. Off-court issues are on-court problems and Sean Miller is a terrible coach. Go back to Dayton.

 **Emma Swan, 12:03 a.m.:** Were you...just talking to Sean Miller? Via text?

 **Killian Jones, 12:03 a.m.:** Yes. Also I will repeat myself from the First Four. The Pac 12 is terrible. You picked the wrong Wildcat, David.

 **Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.:** It’s unfortunate, but you know, someone’s got to be out first, David. It just so happened you were first on the first day.

 **Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.:** The very first day.

 **Emma Swan, 12:04 a.m.:** The first one.

 **Killian Jones, 12:05 a.m.:** As early as possible.

 **David Nolan, 12:11 a.m.:** THIS. IS. A. GROUP. TEXT.

* * *

**The First Round, Friday, Day Two**

“It’s freezing and I’m here and I bought really expensive rum!”

The lock to his building clicks and Emma doesn’t exactly race up the stairs, but she doesn’t just walk up the stairs and by the time she makes it to the third floor there’s a stitch in her side that leaves her just a bit breathless.

Killian’s eyebrows are doing something ridiculous.

“You ok, Swan?” he asks, stepping out of the doorway and grabbing the bottle before she can object. “Did you run here?”  
  
She sticks her tongue out in response, pushing lightly on his shoulder and she really does lose her breath at the sight in front of her. There’s already a pre-game show on TV and two more screens and some kind of projector thing hooked up to his laptop and Emma can feel Killian behind her, something that feels like nerves rolling off him.

“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s just...wow.”  
  
He makes a noncommittal noise, more nerves and caution and Emma wonders if her week-long thought process makes a bit more sense than she originally thought. But that’s only more confusing and she kind of wants to drink some of the rum now.

“It’s really not that impressive,” Killian promises, dropping into the corner of his couch with forced casualness. “The laptops are mine and I borrowed the projector thing from school and there are a lot of games, so I figured…”  
  
Emma nods slowly, trying to take it all in and it might be the nicest thing that’s happened to her in several years. “You figured right,” she promises. “You going to let me see your bracket then?”

It’s enough to break the tension or the nerves or anything else that isn’t the sort of normal she and Killian have settled into and the couch creaks when she sits down.

“I think you’re obsessed with my bracket, love,” Killian says. She’s still not counting. “And, no, you can't look yet. Not until it's over.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't really argue because there's a game starting and she doesn't really want to argue. They’re both more than vocal when Cincinnati plays, shouting a string of insults that gets progressively more crass throughout the game.

And they’re somewhere in the middle of the schedule, debating when they should order food and how qualified Emma is to operate the coffee maker on the other side of the apartment, when she decides _fuck it_ , she’s going to ask.

Or something a little less crass.

“Why’d you pick Purdue?” Emma asks. “Honestly?”  
  
The question catches Killian short, eyes widening until there’s far too much blue there and it looks a little like the Creighton uniforms on TV, which is, honestly, the single most absurd thing she’s ever thought.

“And please don’t make a quip about being obsessed again,” Emma adds. “It’s stupid and a deflection and--”  
  
“That’s where Liam wanted to go,” Killian cuts in, voice scratchy and emotional and she knows her mouth drops open. She’s not sure she’s breathing.

Her lungs have been through the wringer all day.

“I have no idea why,” he continues and he’s not looking at her anymore. “It makes no sense whatsoever because Purdue is several states away from where we grew up, but he did and he thought a Boilermaker was some kind of fantastic mascot and I think he kind of wanted to be an engineer? But then my mom died and he had to take care of me so--”  
  
“That wasn’t your fault.”  
  
They need to stop interrupting each other. They need to stop having these emotionally-charged conversations in the middle of a basketball marathon with takeout menus everywhere.

They probably should have done this before.

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Swan,” Killian grins. “And you didn’t even make a joke about Purdue’s top kid getting hurt.”  
  
“You think I’d make jokes about kids getting hurt?”  
  
He sobers for a moment, eyes darting to hers immediately and the whole word seems to shift when he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters, but it sounds like several admissions and some kind of major sporting moment and Emma tries to remember how important oxygen is to the human body. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”  
  
“You’re kind of a sap, you know that?”  
  
Killian chuckles softly, leaning forward and his hand is on her knee again. Time, it seems, is some kind of twisted circle.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “I’m glad you’re here, love.”

Emma’s mouth goes dry at the sincerity in his voice, the hint of hopefulness on the edge of his gaze, like he means it and has been waiting to tell her for several years. She can feel the flush in her cheeks, teeth digging into her lower lip and his hand tightens a fraction of an inch.

He doesn’t flinch when hers lands on top.

She considers twisting their fingers together, but there have already been enough upsets and that team with the nun mascot was all over social media the night before, so Emma figures the world only allows so many surprises in a twenty-four hour span.

“Yeah, me too,” she says instead and she might think about his answering smile for the next week. “You want to order some food?”

They order way too much food and eat way too much food and Emma almost expects Killian’s cheers when they both start yelling during the Xavier game.

It’s easy and simple and they watch every single moment of every single game, only pausing a few times to answer David’s manic texts once UMBC takes a lead into halftime against Virginia.

“He thinks they’re going to win,” Emma mutters, but she’s standing and pacing, mumbling instructions under her breath.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Do you not, love? As predicted, you’re playing defense. And rooting against your own pick.”  
  
“Aren’t you? I thought we determined you were a giant, sentimental sap?”  
  
“I’m not sure we settled on that turn of phrase, particularly, but to answer your question, of course I am. A little bracket chaos never hurt anyone.”  
  
“Plus you’re a great, big history nerd.”  
  
“You know none of these compliments sound much like compliments.”

Emma flashes him a smile, but her gaze darts back to the TV when Jim Nantz’s voice reaches a previously unachieved register and she’s not sure she’s ever heard of UMBC before.

They’re up double digits.

“I’m definitely complimenting you,” Emma promises. “And you know…”  
  
She waves her hand towards the screen, rolling her eyes when her phone makes more noise. Killian hasn’t blinked since the takeout got cold. He’s staring at her like he’s trying to read her mind or figure out what league UMBC plays in and they’re equally disconcerting and exciting because there’s more history to be made.

Maybe.

Emma hates her own metaphors.

“I don’t,” he mutters, gaze steady and just a hint imploring. Like he wants to know. Desperately.

“Well, maybe you deserve some compliments,” Emma starts. “And, you know...maybe I’m kind of a sap too. Rooting for the underdogs and upsets and picking the alma mater because there’s some history and...cut me off whenever.”  
  
He shakes his head, standing up slowly, and he’s in her space a moment later, one hand on the curve of her shoulder – as if he’s trying to make sure she’s there or keep her there and there are only a few minutes left in the game.

“That’s not a bad thing, Swan,” Killian says. “You’re allowed to care about things.”

“Yeah, sometimes those have a habit of blowing up in my face. The underdogs disappoint. That’s just how it works.”  
  
They are _drowning_ in metaphors.

And he showed up on her doorstep a little over a year ago when she and Neal dissolved into whatever they weren’t, got her to let him into the apartment and brought her an entire box of samosas. He slept on her couch.

The buzzer on the TV goes off.

UMBC won.

History made.

Or something less sentimental.

“Not always,” Killian breathes, but Emma hears him perfectly and she’s, at least, seventy-six percent positive he’s going to kiss her when her phone dings, at least, seventy-six times.

She’s not sure which one of them groans louder.

“David needs a hobby,” Emma grumbles.

“This is his hobby.”  
  
‘Well, then he needs a new one. This is just…”  
  
“Yeah, exactly.”  
  
“Why did that sound like an insult?”  
  
Killian makes a dismissive noise, an air of frustration lingering around him and Emma needs to go home. She doesn’t really want to go home. “It wasn’t,” Killian says. “It was just…” He’s going to do damage to his neck if he keeps shaking his head, but Emma’s forgotten how to hold a conversation and she’s too busy being stunned by the next words out of his mouth to be worried about saying anything except--

“What?”  
  
“It’s late,” he mumbles. “And you’re going to get surge pricing and you can just stay here.”

That’s what she thought he said.

Huh.

“Oh,” Emma blinks. “That’s um...are you sure?”  
  
That’s not what she expects to say.

Huh.

Again.

Killian nods. It’s a nice change of pace. So is the smile and that one lock of hair on his forehead and his hand is still on her arm.

“Yeah, yeah, it makes sense, right?” he asks. “And then you can raid the coffee again in the morning. It’s a win-win for you.”  
  
“Ok,” Emma says, a quick agreement that seems to rush out of her and into the air molecules where it lingers for several history-making, relationship-changing moments. “Ok.”

He absolutely refuses to let her sleep on the couch and Emma doesn’t argue, just smiles and lets herself be silently charmed by it and _of course_ he has extra toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet. She falls asleep under the questionable number of blankets on his bed, a smile lingering on her face and in her soul or something equally ridiculous and he doesn’t say anything when she drinks four cups of coffee the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Second Round, Saturday, Day One**

 Emma shows up late to Mary Margaret and David’s apartment with half-wet hair and Killian smiles as soon as his eyes land on hers.

David opens his mouth to say something.

Mary Margaret kicks his ankles.

He doesn’t say anything.

Emma sits next to Killian all day.

* * *

**The Second Round, Sunday, Day Two**

Xavier loses in dramatic fashion to Florida State and Emma is somewhere in between pissed and so goddamn disappointed she feels like she’s aching with it.

It’s not a feeling she particularly enjoys.

“Someone’s got to be the second one out,” David grins over his glass of whatever alcohol he’s been mixing all night. His expression doesn’t change when Emma flips him off or when she stalks into the kitchen, mumbling about _missed opportunity_ and _fucking Chris Mack_ and _horrible mascots_.

She hates the entire state of Florida.

And the ACC.

Honestly, fuck the ACC.

“I will survive, Mary Margaret,” Emma says when she hears footsteps joining her in the kitchen, but she knows it’s not Mary Margaret as soon as the words are out of her mouth.

Killian hums, disbelief in the sound, and he makes some kind of strangled noise when she takes a particularly long swig of tequila straight from the bottle.

“That seems like a very large lie, Swan, but I appreciate the effort,” he laughs, tugging the bottle out of her hand before she can do more damage to her liver. “Case in point.”  
  
“You are not a lawyer.”  
  
“That is true, but I do know a little bit about you now and I did warn you about the alma mater’s tendency to drop the ball in big moments.”  
  
“I can’t believe you’re making puns right now.”  
  
“Can you not?”  
  
Emma sags, letting her head drop to his chest before she considers what that means. Killian’s free hand lands on her hip and it’s all very close and very normal and one of those things is kind of unexpected, but also kind of nice and he’s going to win _again_. God.

“Is David still gloating?” she asks, the words getting mumbled in his shirt.  
  
“I’m fairly certain he’s going to gloat for the rest of the night, love. Although Mary Margaret and I did both tell him to shut up before I came in here to make sure you were ok.”  
  
She doesn’t lift her head up. She’s not sure she can.

“Mary Margaret told David to shut up?” Emma mumbles. “That’s more historic than UMBC.”  
  
“You know I think they could win again tonight. What even is Kansas State?”  
  
“Another Wildcat team.”  
  
“All the more reason to root against them, don’t you think?”

Emma’s laugh is shaky at best and watery at worst, but Killian’s hand doesn’t move. It might even tighten a fraction of an inch. It makes her head swim more than the alcohol.

“And,” he adds. “Mary Margaret didn’t use the words shut up, per se, just gave him that look that can turn mortal men to stone and he stopped talking after that.”  
  
“You’ve been reading far too many essays.”  
  
Killian chuckles lightly, the force of it making his chest shift and Emma breathes him in without entirely meaning too, a scent that’s dimly familiar because she slept in his bed two nights before and absolutely, positively has not been thinking about it non stop since then.

She’s really mad her team lost.

She hopes it’s not a sign for, like, her life.

“And what did you say?” she asks, fingers finding fabric as well and his smile is a little tremulous when she looks at him.

“I told him to shut the fuck up because his strategy was stupid and at least yours had some actual emotion to it.”  
  
Emma doesn’t gasp, which feels a bit like a victory, but she blinks a lot and opens her mouth several times and she’s dangerously close to ripping Killian’s shirt in half.

She starts talking to stop herself from doing something else.

Anything else.

An else that is drifting dangerously close to kissing him.

She’s drifting dangerously close to kissing him.

“And Cincinnati lost,” Emma mutters. “A two losing to a seven is almost as bad as a one losing to a nine. Right?”  
  
“Worse, I think. And Cincinnati lost to Nevada. I mean...what even is Nevada?”  
  
“The state or…”  
  
“Well, yeah,” Killian shrugs and the smile’s a bit more confident and a lot more flirty. The counter is digging into Emma’s spine. She barely feels it. “But also the basketball team we’re currently discussing. Wolf Pack? That’s a garbage mascot too. And, you know, the Mountain West isn’t a Power Five or anything and…”

They are really horrible at finishing sentences, particularly when Emma pushes up on her toes and lets go of his shirt long enough to card her fingers through his hair and she can still feel his smile when her lips find his.

Killian kisses exactly like Emma expects he would and the exact opposite, a confusing, slightly wobbly line to walk that may have something to do with the considerable amount of tequila she just drank, but also might just be him.

Or them.

As some kind of collective unit.

He crowds into her space, pushing her further against the counter like he’s trying to make sure he gets to touch every inch of her and it absolutely feels that way. It also feels a bit like a live wire, shocks running up and down her arms and her spine and the ends of her hair until Emma feels like she’s made of electricity and energy and she can’t seem to stop kissing him.

They break apart only to find each other again, mouths slanting over the other with a practiced eased that doesn’t make sense at all. Emma arches her back, trying to avoid a spinal contusion from the goddamn counter, but that only leaves her hips pushing into Killian’s and she’s totally unprepared for the way he growls against her.

She can’t catch her breath.

She doesn’t really want to, is more than content to let her lungs burn to ash if she gets to stay in that moment because that moment is pretty fucking fantastic and they are really, really good at kissing each other.

_They are kissing each other_.

Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

One moment of defending her bracket honor and trashing Cincinnati and Emma is attacking Killian in the kitchen of an apartment that isn’t hers.

She jerks back, realization washing over her and it’s worse than the disappointment or the anger. The counter digs into her spine.

He looks a little wrecked, lips just on the wrong side of red and pupils blown wide and she’s absolutely destroyed his hair, little bits sticking up in the back that make it almost _too_ obvious what they’d been doing in someone else’s kitchen.

“That was…” Killian stammers and the sound of his voice makes Emma’s heart sputter.

She shakes her head, his shoulders almost visibly sagging until her heart sputters for a totally different reason. “No, no, that’s…” she mumbles. His hands sound like several anvils when they crash back to his side. “I’m going to go. I’ve got stuff….stuff to do tomorrow and another perp and you know…”  
  
Killian doesn’t stop her when she leaves, a quick explanation to David and Mary Margaret, and Emma doesn’t look at her bracket for the next four days.

 

* * *

  **The Sweet 16, Day One**

**Mary Margaret Nolan 6:59 p.m.:** You on your way?

**Mary Margaret Nolan 7:02 p.m.:**  Killian said he couldn’t come. Something about grading and midterms and not being able to focus and it was a very long explanation.

**Mary Margaret Nolan 7:34 p.m.:** There are six minutes left so I’m assuming you’re not coming. And also that you’re not dead.

**Mary Margaret Nolan 7:35 p.m.:** Please let me know that you’re not dead.

**Emma Swan, 7:42 p.m.:** Not dead.

The phone rings. Emma is not surprised.

“Still not dead,” she answers. “I’ve just got...stuff.”  
  
She can almost hear Mary Margaret blink.

“Stuff,” Mary Margaret echoes. “Stuff like Killian had stuff? You know at least he had the common decency to come up with some kind of valid excuse.”  
  
“I really do have stuff. A job. I got that guy last night.”  
  
“David told me. But that means you should be set for the rest of the weekend. Free and clear to watch basketball and try and play defense from the comfort of your own home.”  
  
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”  
  
Mary Margaret presumably blinks again. “Do they?”

“One people,” Emma sighs. “Ah, don’t correct that. Person. Singular.”  
  
“Who might also not be here?” Emma nods, well aware Mary Margaret can’t see her and even more aware she doesn’t have too when she makes a sympathetic noise in the phone. “Do I want to know what happened in my kitchen after we lost?”  
  
“We?”  
  
“Yes, answer my question please.”  
  
Emma sighs, tugging her hair over her shoulder and Loyola Chicago won again. Maybe she should e-mail Sister Jean. For moral support or something.

“I kissed Killian,” Emma says, rushing over the words and it still takes too long. “In your kitchen. I’m sorry about your kitchen.”  
  
“But not about kissing Killian?” Mary Margaret asks.

“Wow, that was a quick critique.”  
  
“Not a critique, more like an observation. Why?”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Why did you kiss Killian? Was that the first time?”  
  
“Do you think I wouldn’t tell you?”

“I mean…” Mary Margaret stammers and Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. “You guys have this...thing. The banter and the very obvious flirting and how quick he was to defend your bracket honor on Sunday.”

Emma’s brain gets a bit stuck on flirting, trying to come up with objections or disagreements, but those words aren’t quite as easy to get out and maybe Mary Margaret has a point.

Maybe Emma is the biggest idiot in the world.

She desperately needs Sister Jean’s help.

“First time,” Emma whispers. “And I don’t even know how it happened. We were talking and making fun of Cincinnati and Nevada and then suddenly we were making out in your kitchen and you know he’s really good at that.”  
  
“I don’t, but I will take your word on it.”  
  
“C’mon.”  
  
“Emma, you didn't show tonight because you thought he might be here and he thought the same exact thing, even if his excuse was a little better. I know you don’t hate him and I know he only ever hated you because it was some stupid, misplaced defense mechanism. I also know you stayed over there on Friday and I’m guessing you didn’t totally hate it.”  
  
“Good guess.”  
  
“Yeah, I know you. And he’s probably freaking out just as much as you are.”

* * *

**The Sweet 16, Day 2**

Purdue loses by thirteen points and it’s not even that close.

It’s bad and disappointing and Emma’s not sure why she’s disappointed, but she’s not entirely sure why she’s calling Uber or heading downtown either. She stands on the top of the stairs for a solid five minutes, questioning her sanity until her phone rings in her pocket and she nearly breaks both her ankles jumping.

“God, what?” she snaps, not bothering to look at the name. That’s a mistake.

He laughs in response, quiet and cautious and her heart really can’t deal with much more of this, but his voice seems to shake through her, matching up with her pulse and her slightly ragged breathing.

“Why are you loitering outside my building, Swan?” Killian asks.

“How can you see me?”  
  
“I have eyes?”  
  
“No, I mean...I realize that,” Emma sputters, somehow managing not to mention anything about how goddamn blue his eyes also are and something about how similar they are to the blue on Michigan’s uniforms, but that may be the single most absurd thing she’s ever thought. “But it’s, you know, it’s a weird angle to look out the window or something.”  
  
“Yeah,” he admits and the laughter’s still there, but there’s still a distinct lack of confidence that’s also a bit jarring. “But David’s been texting me for the last twenty minutes about Syracuse losing and Boeheim’s inability to win games when he’s supposed to and something about Duke being inherently evil and I think there was some mention of the WB?”

“Excuse me?”  
  
“No, no, that’s not it. What did it change into?”  
  
“You’re speaking in tongues,” Emma mumbles and this is not how she planned on the conversation going. She, admittedly, didn’t really plan it at all, but that’s not the point. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“The WB turned into something else and Mary Margaret apparently had thoughts about Duke and Coach K and--”  
  
“--Oh my God, she’s talking about _One Tree Hill_.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _One Tree Hill_ ,” Emma repeats, leaning against the railing behind her because it’s absurd and ridiculous and so goddamn Mary Margaret she’s surprised she didn’t realize it immediately. “And the network you’re looking for is the CW. It’s a CW show and Mary Margaret loved it and we watched it when we were in school. Have you never seen it?”

“What does that have to do with Duke?”  
  
“Nathan Scott was going to play for Duke. It’s all he ever wanted.”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
“But then he got married and Hayley got pregnant and they needed money and--”

“--Wait, these are high schoolers?”  
  
“Don’t interrupt,” she mutters and she can practically hear his answering smile. “Yes they’re high schoolers. It doesn't’t matter. They were all, like, forty when they filmed it, but Nathan wanted to go to Duke only he needed money so he got some from Rick Fox for point shaving.”  
  
“None of these words make sense in this order.”  
  
Emma ignores him. “The point-shaving thing comes out eventually and Nathan is shamed and Hayley gets hit by a car and that part doesn’t matter, but Coach K retracts his scholarship and he has to go to junior college before he goes to Maryland and Mary Margaret has hated Duke ever since. That’s why she picks them to lose in the first round every year.”  
  
Killian’s silent for a few moments, long enough that Emma pulls her phone away from her ear to make sure the call didn’t get disconnect. It didn’t.

“Still with me?” she asks softly, but it feels like the biggest question in the world and the railing might be leaving a permanent bruise at the base of her spine. “Because I didn’t really come here to talk about Nathan Scott.”  
  
He makes some kind of strangled noise in the back of his throat, not quite an agreement and Emma bites her lip tightly. “Yeah, I kind of figured,” Killian mutters. “Why then?”  
  
And it’s right there, the chance and the opportunity and she just had to take the shot, but the clock is ticking and the crowd is incredibly loud in this metaphor and Emma is...well, Emma.

She’s better at assists than final-second buzzer beaters.

This metaphor is stupid.

“I, um…” she stammers, lips dry and it is so fucking cold on his block, she’s not entirely certain she’s still in the same city. “How’s your bracket doing?”  
  
Emma can almost hear him blink, the quiet huff of air sounding impossibly loud in the phone.

“Busted to all hell,” Killian says softly. “Purdue looked like shit all night. Although I wasn’t aware of the Nathan Scott rules so I did pick Duke over Syracuse.”  
  
“I’m sure Mary Margaret will forgive you.”  
  
“Yeah she’s generous like that.”  
  
He hums and Emma nearly falls over herself when the door next to her swings open, Killian staring at her with slightly ruffled hair and a Xavier alumni shirt on and out of all the things she was absolutely not prepared for, that might have been at the very top of the list.

“God,” Emma breathes, stuffing her phone in her pocket and the look on his face is definitely number two on that list. “Were you trying to give me a heart attack? I think I’m having a heart attack right now.”

He doesn’t blink, mouth twisted slightly like he’s examining her or waiting for her to explain every single thought she’s had in the last week and they’re equal parts disconcerting and attractive, which is kind of how she’s thought of Killian Jones since spring semester freshman year.

“You’re not having a heart attack,” he promises. “Can you at least come inside though? Because I’m genuinely worried about you getting arrested for loitering and it’s freezing out here.”  
  
Emma nods numbly, sure there’s a joke to be made in there, but her mind kind of short circuits when Killian wraps his fingers around her wrist and tugs her forward.

The door sounds impossibly loud when it slams shut behind her.

“Killian, I um…” she starts, narrowing her eyes when he starts shaking his head.

“No, no, Swan let me get this out first, ok?” Emma nods and she’s never seen him look like that, nervous and anxious and a slew of other vaguely depressing adjectives that make her stomach clench and her heart stutter and even Nathan Scott never had to deal with this kind of relationship drama.

“I’m sorry,” Killian continues. “For the last week and the reason for the last week and...I just...you were there and then we were...and it was like my whole world shifted and then you were gone and, well, it’s not an excuse, but it’s at least an explanation.”  
  
He tries to smile, coming up decidedly short, and Emma knows she’s breathing far too loudly, but all of this is going to complete shit and she doesn’t have a single team left in her Final Four, which just seems like a cruel joke at this point.

“Wait, are you apologizing right now? Emma asks. His eyebrows might have a mind of their own. They shift and twist and there’s a flash of something on the edge of his gaze that might be hope, but they’re kind of arguing about making out and neither one of them have actually used that phrase yet.

“Yes?”  
  
“Why was that a question?”  
  
“Why were you lurking outside my apartment at questionable hours of the night?”  
  
“It’s not even midnight!”

“Swan,” Killian says evenly, rocking into her space and for half a moment she thinks he might try and touch her wrist again and the world possibly explodes. She’s surprised to find she’s still standing. “You live twenty blocks away. I’m fairly certain you didn’t come down here to brag about Purdue losing.”

She bites her lip, tugging them both back behind her teeth until it almost hurts and Killian swears softly when he realizes what he’s said.

“I mean, maybe I did,” Emma reasons. “That’s kind of our MO, right? We banter and we make fun of each other’s basketball choices every March and now you can’t really win. So, you know, maybe I did come down her to welcome you to that particular club.”  
  
“Are there matching jackets?”  
  
“Was that a joke?”  
  
“Yes, tell me why you’re here please.”

Emma scoffs, digging the toe of her shoe into the floor. “I don’t know. No, no, that’s not true at all. I do know. I just...I guess I’m sorry too?”  
  
“Ah. Ok.”  
  
She waits for the rest of it, the inevitable response or snappy retort, but she can’t bring herself to drag her eyes away from her feet either and it sounds like Killian sighs.

They are apologizing for kissing each other.

This is what Emma gets for listening to Mary Margaret. Kind of. Mary Margaret probably would have told her to use actual words and proper sentence structure and it’s probably important to actually look at the person when you’re trying to figure out if it’s ok to make out other places.

Emma kind of wants to make out other places.

“Oh, right, right,” she mumbles. “Yeah. That’s...great.”  
  
She kind of growls out the word, like she’s a cartoon tiger or something equally ridiculous and Killian tilts his head in confusion. “That didn’t sound very convincing,” he says.

“No, no, I know. But I really am sorry. For all of it.”  
  
“All of it?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“All of it?”  
  
Emma scowls, waving her hands through the air and her eyes bug slightly when Killian catches both of them in his. And maybe the metaphor has moved to overtime now and she knows she has to think about scoring first and that’s _another_ joke, but there’s not enough time to make it and she really wants to win.

Metaphorically.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she whispers, hardly loud enough for her own ears and she probably should have called a timeout to draw up the perfect play.

“This?” Killian echoes. He squeezes her right wrist slightly whens he glares. “Be more specific, Swan. Please.”  
  
“We made out in Mary Margaret and David’s kitchen.”  
  
“I was there.”  
  
“And that was…”  
  
“Greeeeeeat?”

“Oh my God,” Emma hisses, but his smile is a bit more normal and hell of a lot less tense and something about nothing but net. “But that’s what I mean...I just...God, you know I hated you. I couldn’t stand you and you were always around and then you were ok and we’re kind of friends, right?” Killian nods slowly and Emma’s stomach feels like it’s in the middle of a forty-second overtime. “And we are so weirdly competitive about these brackets and just, like, life in general, but…”

She doesn’t get the next word out.

And she’s not really that upset because she wasn’t really sure where she was going and they are really, really great at making out.

Emma’s feet skim the ground when Killian’s arm finds its way around her waist, tugging her flush against his chest and her laugh lingers in the minimal amount of air between them.

She tilts her head, letting her tongue skim along his bottom lip and whatever noise he makes should be documented, but that’s weird and not very friend-like and if they never use the word friends again, it will be too soon.

They don’t move, more than content to simply linger in each other’s space for a few moments longer, or, like, the rest of the night and Emma’s lungs start to burn at the lack of oxygen, a dull ache in her arms from holding them up for so long. Killian’s fingers brush over her back, tracing patterns until he inches dangerously close to bottom of her jacket and the loose hem of her shirt and there’s a Xavier logo on it as well.

That feels important.

“Why are you wearing that shirt?” she asks.

Killian blinks when he leans back slightly, laughter practically flying out of him and the force of his answering kiss is honestly the most ridiculous thing she’s ever experienced. “I felt like I was kind of sticking it ‘Nova somehow.”

“Sticking it to ‘Nova.”  
  
“Look who’s repeating who now, love. And yes, exactly that. Fuck Villanova and fuck your brother’s weird Wildcat-based bracket because he brought that up too before I stopped responding to him.”  
  
“He probably won’t appreciate that.”

“Probably not, but he also picked the wrong Wildcat in the Kentucky-Kansas State game so that was fun to point out.”

She laughs, smile genuine and it’s far too easy to keep kissing him, fingers carding through his hair until there’s more kissing and more laughing and she, somehow, steps on his feet.

He never put shoes on.

“It’s freezing in here,” Emma mumbles, mostly against his lips and her breath catches when he, finally, finds a way to get his hand underneath her shirt. His fingers are warm.

That also feels important.

And like...life changing.

“Yeah, I don’t think this really counts as inside,” Killian says and Emma’s shiver has absolutely nothing to do with the distinct chill in the air. “We could…”  
  
They should be able to finish sentences, but she’s really enjoying this kissing thing they’re doing and she is, admittedly, very attracted to a slightly stuttering Killian Jones who is stuttering over her and a possible invitation upstairs.

“Ok, great,” Emma mutters, answering a question he never actually asked and the metaphor has most into the post-game press conference portion.

Killian practically beams.

And kisses her again.

She never knows how they manage to get upstairs, bypassing the elevator because it’s far too slow and they’re far too impatient and they have to stop, at least, six times on three different flights of stairs to kiss and tug on college-brand apparel and Emma steps on his toes twice.

He laughs about it, dragging his lips over her jaw and the side of her neck and that spot behind her ear that gets her to make some kind of noise that’s a mix between a sigh and a groan and she’s already trying to take her jacket off before he gets his key in the door.

“I don’t want to mess it up either,” Killian whispers later, pressing the words into her hair and, possibly, her soul and Emma smiles against the pillow.

* * *

**The Elite Eight, Day 1**

They don’t really decide not to tell David and Mary Margaret, but they don’t _not_ decide it and it’s a very weird sentence with far too many double negatives.

It is the full-court press, trap in the far corner of sentences.

And it doesn’t really matter because Mary Margaret keeps shooting them furtive glances all night and Loyola Chicago is winning, so there’s probably some kind of lesson to be learned about Cinderella stories and mid-major basketball programs and whatever a Rambler is.

“This is insane,” David says, not for the first time and Emma has to bite back her smile. He’s pacing in the corner of the room, hands stuffed in his pockets and frustration hanging in the air around him. “This is just…”  
  
“Insane,” Killian finishes. “Yeah, so we’ve heard.”  
  
He flashes her a smile, all easy confidence and maybe March is more fun when she’s just rooting for underdogs and that’s another lesson.

Emma has not had nearly enough to drink for this conversation. Because she stayed the night and stayed the morning and she could, maybe, get used to the coffee maker in Killian’s apartment and the water pressure in his shower, particularly when she’s not the only one in the shower and maybe they should stop antagonizing David long enough to have an actual conversation about what the hell it is they’re doing.

“Shut up, Jones,” David grumbles, rolling his eyes when Loyola hits another three and the camera pans to Sister Jean. “You know they’re making a bobble head of her,” he adds. “Can you believe that?”  
  
“Can I believe that a place of higher learning in the United States is trying to ride the wave of publicity from a wave of sports headlines?” Emma asks, doing her best to infuse sarcasm into every single letter. “No, I can’t believe that at all.”  
  
“God, that was jaded.”  
  
She shrugs. “Realistic. And I’m not the one pacing around demanding fouls be called like the refs can hear me or trust my basketball knowledge.”  
  
“I have basketball knowledge,” David shouts and both Killian and Mary Margaret laugh.

“You have basketball frustration,” Killian corrects. Mary Margaret is still trying to turn her laugh into a convincing cough, David staring in disbelief at her. “And I’m not entirely sure why you’re so upset about this. You had Kentucky beating Kansas State anyway. This is not a Wildcats team you’ve claimed as your own.”  
  
“That title shifts.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“It shifts,” David repeats, growling in the back of his throat when K-State turns the ball over. “One Wildcats becomes another.”  
  
“Those words don’t even make sense in that order.”

David rolls his eyes, coming up mid-pace and Loyola is winning by double digits at this point. It really is insane.

“Yes it does,” David continues, but he seems to have lost some of his fight and the couch creaks when he dramatically collapses back down next to Mary Margaret. She hums in understanding, slinging an arm around his shoulders and scrunching her nose slightly and it’s only a little patronizing.

And, Emma realizes rather suddenly, no one has asked Mary Margaret about her bracket yet.

“You had Kentucky winning the region,” Emma says, tugging her legs up underneath her and she swears Killian’s shoulders shift when the edge of her shirt hitches slightly. “You can’t just switch allegiances because your plan didn’t work out the way you wanted it to.”

David narrows his eyes, tilting his head slightly and Emma gets the distinct impression he’s trying to read her mind. “That was less jaded. Almost sentimental.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be a jerk because your bracket sucks.”  
  
“We lost in the second round.”  
  
“We?” Emma echoes and her throat his starting to hurt from laughing so much. She’s not sure that’s a bad thing. “You can’t claim Xavier as _we_ when you didn’t pick them.”  
  
“I picked them! I just had them losing in the Sweet 16. Whatever, Killian had him in his Final Four.”

Emma blinks, her entire body freezing and everything feels like it’s expanding and contracting at the same time, but that might be her heart and picking their own alma mater to finish in the Final Four shouldn't feel like the single most important thing in the entire world.

She really needs it to be April.

The national championship game is in April.

She swallows and it can’t be good to keep blinking that often, but her eyes feel like they’re about to fall out of her face and she might be a few seconds away from crying so, like, in the grand scheme of things it’s an almost responsible choice.

It feels like it takes forever to turn, twisting and trying to keep her balance on the incredibly plushy chair Emma always claims as her own whenever she’s in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment and she’s not really surprised to find Killian smiling softly at her when she meets his gaze.

Mary Margaret might be crying too.

Not that Emma’s crying. Over Xavier. In the Final Four.

_God_.

“They had an ok chance in theory,” Killian reasons, but his voice is soft and a little earnest and it warms several different cockles of Emma’s potentially jaded heart. “But Florida State’s probably going to lose to Michigan anyway so revenge will be mine or whatever.”

Emma’s answering laugh is definitely watery and maybe they should have told David _something_ because it’s absolutely _everything_ and she kind of wants to cross the room and kiss her _whatever they’re calling it,_ but there’s still more basketball to watch and she’s going to figure out Killian Jones’ bracket theory if she has to ply him with coffee from his own very expensive coffee maker.

Florida State does, in fact, lose to Michigan and no one is more excited than Mary Margaret because Mary Margaret is a big fan of that blue and yellow color scheme and _wolverine is a fantastic nickname, kind of intimidating, but also kind of fluffy with a distinct lack of racism_ and she picked both games right.

And they don’t really talk about it and it’s more double negatives, but then they’re in the back seat of an Uber and Killian’s hand lands on Emma’s knee and, well, that’s...a lot.

So kissing makes more sense than just about anything else until she’s pressed against his door again and his fingers are trailing across her waist and she honestly can’t stop smiling.

It’s weird.

It’s nice.

It’s...goddamn fantastic and might be even better if he weren’t wearing a shirt, but Emma is curious and maybe still a little jaded and Killian nips at her finger when she rests a hand between them.

“Explain your bracket approach,” she says and it sounds a bit like a command, but it kind of his and _surprised_ looks very good on Killian when it’s mixed in with _want_.

“What?”  
  
“Your bracket approach. The research. The reasoning. Why you picked Xavier for the Final Four and didn’t mention that.”

“Right now?”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because I’m very interested in kissing you.”  
  
She flushes, but she’s got no control over that and will probably blame his apartment building for keeping the heat on high in late March. “C’mon, you’ve got to tell me. This is...it’s driving me nuts. Do you have Final Four teams left?”  
  
“Swan are you kidding me?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Killian sighs and ducks his head quick enough to brush his lips over hers, clicking his tongue when Emma chases after him. She’s not sure she has control over that either.

“I have one Final Four team left,” he says. “Kansas. But I had them losing to Purdue, so by David’s rule of transfer I’m not sure if that even counts anymore.”  
  
“Oh God, please don’t call it David’s rule of transfer. That’s horrible.”  
  
“There are so many rules in this conversation, Swan,” Killian grins, working a gasp out of her when he cants his hips up and she briefly considers shaving his eyebrows off in the middle of the night just so they can’t do whatever it is they’re doing again. “The bracket system is, mostly, a mix of my own basketball knowledge, picking a few teams I know you won’t ever pick, records and previous performance and…”

He licks his lips before he finishes, shoulders shifting slightly and he doesn’t blink when he meets her gaze. “And,” he repeats softly. “Some of the teams that my brother would pick when we’d fill out brackets when we were kids.”  
  
Emma blinks. Of course.

“What?”  
  
“It was his stupid idea,” Killian mutters, a hint of fondness in his voice that makes Emma’s breath catch again for an entirely different reason. “We were kids and there wasn’t a ton of other stuff to do and my mom...she was always working. So Liam had to find some way to entertain me and, you know, I’m kind of a competitive asshole.”

She laughs, head falling onto his shoulder of recently-acquired habit and her own personal brand of _fond_ and Emma smiles into his jacket when he brushes his lips over the top of her hair.

She wraps both her arms around his waist.

“He used to draw the brackets,” Killian continues. “We didn’t have a printer or cable and nothing better to do than watch basketball for three straight weeks and argue over picks and who was winning and it kind of stuck. Mary Margaret thought it was a great--”

Killian cuts himself off, eyes going wide and Emma feels like she’s moving in slow motion again, standing up straight with her pulse ringing in her ears.

He winces.

“Don’t tell her I told you that,” he mutters.

Emma shakes her head, a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth and it’s obviously not what Killian expects, lips pressed together tightly and fingers moving over the curve of her waist like he’s nervous she’s going to bolt at this particular display of emotional depth.

She’s kind of charmed by it.

And Mary Margaret was absolutely playing the long con.

“I’ve always loved sports,” Emma says, exhaling a breath her lungs probably need to continue functioning. “I have no idea why because I’m not particularly athletic or inclined to run places if I’m not getting paid for it, but I loved all of this, the spectacle and the event and I totally try and play defense in front of the TV.

And I know I’ve got something good in David and Mary Margaret and they’re not going anywhere, but that’s still kind of hard to believe sometimes and sports are...bigger than all of that. They’re, God it’s so fucking sentimental it hurts, but they’re bigger than people and the singular and I mean it’s right there, right? The team and the fight and the underdog story and...you know, cut me off whenever, please.”

Killian grins, the force of it shaking Emma to her core and she’s glad for the door behind her when he takes a step into her space and kisses her – hard.

Go team or whatever.

* * *

  **The Elite Eight, Day 2**

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Tell us how you really feel, Swan.”  
  
“Honestly, screw Villanova.”

“That’s more like it.”

Emma stops cursing long enough to glare at him and Killian smiles, eyes flashing when he catches her around the waist and neither David nor Mary Margaret say anything about that. She will probably have to thank them for that at some point.

And there still hasn’t been _the talk,_ but nothing has really changed because they still banter and tease, just with a bit more touching and a hell of a lot more kissing when they’re not in Mary Margaret and David’s apartment.

They came to Mary Margaret and David’s apartment together – laden down with Indian food so no one said anything, but Emma noticed the look her brother shot her soon-to-be sister-in-law and it’s honestly a miracle no one has bragged or used the phrase _told you so_.

“Jay Wright’s suits are stupid,” Emma continues, squirming against Killian’s chest and that’s a mistake for everyone involved. “He wears a vest with his suit. And he never takes his jacket off. What kind of coach never takes his jacket off?”  
  
“One that knows he’s going to win,” David mutters.

She flips him off.

“You have no pride.”  
  
“I have Wildcat power.”  
  
“What team,” Mary Margaret says, as if she’s on cue and Emma can’t stop the _wildcats_ from falling out of her if she tried. She doesn’t really try. And Killian’s arm is very tight around her waist. “Plus,” she adds. “We’ve still got Duke to root against, so the night is not completely lost.”

Duke loses in overtime and Grayson Allen misses the potential game-winner at the buzzer and it’s the kind of game Emma can get behind because, really, Nathan Scott didn’t deserve to lose his scholarship.

He was just trying to help his pregnant wife.

“Duke lost to St. John’s too,” Killian mutters, eyes flitting Emma’s direction and she smiles.

* * *

**Tuesday, No Games, No Basketball, Total Disappointment**

**David Nolan, 5:45 p.m.** : I’m not even disappointed. Loyalty is a joke in college sports.

**Emma Swan, 5:46 p.m.:** Says the guy who wanted to transfer his Wildcat points from one team to another.

**Emma Swan, 5:46 p.m.:** And we knew Chris Mack was going to leave. It was only a matter of time. And Louisville is Louisville. Plus, the ACC is...you know. It’s good basketball.

**Mary Margaret, 5:48 p.m.:** That’s basketball blasphemy, Emma. Thoughts on Xavier’s next coach?

**Killian Jones, 5:49 p.m.:** Swan, obviously. Have you seen her defensive play calling? Unparalleled on the East coast.

**Emma Swan, 5:50 p.m.:** _middle finger emoji_

**Killian Jones, 5:51 p.m.:** That was a compliment, love.

She blushes from the corner of the couch she’s curled into, teeth tugging on her lip and Killian barely glances her direction over the stack of midterm essays he’s spent the better part of the last few hours grading.

“A compliment, huh?” she asks.

“Undoubtedly.”

And neither one of them respond to David’s last message.

**David Nolan, 5:53 p.m.:** THIS. IS. A. GROUP. TEXT.

* * *

**The Final Four**

Michigan wins.

Kansas wins.

Emma cheers when Villanova loses and Jay Wright doesn’t take off his suit jacket.

David grumbles about _fucking Wildcats_ and _live by the three, die by the three_ for forty-five minutes.

* * *

**The National Championship**

It’s become as much of a tradition as their brackets – a final day of college basketball party at Mary Margaret and David’s apartment with food and people and cheering for teams that they’d otherwise root against if there weren’t brackets to defend.

Mary Margaret is decked out in head to toe yellow and blue, detailing the pros of the Big Ten tournament moving to Madison Square Garden and how good it was _for teams to have that week off and recharge_ and Emma laughs into her third cup of several different types of alcohol.

“She’s got it all memorized,” Killian says, appearing next to and his arm falls around her shoulder with practiced ease.

They’re getting very good at this.

They still haven’t labeled it.

Emma doesn’t mind.

Obviously.

Of course.

They kiss all the time.

“Like you don’t have a list of twenty-six reasons Kansas is going to totally wreck,” Emma counters.

Killian scoffs. “I wouldn’t use the phrase totally wrecked though. And the list is more like thirty-seven at this point. Kansas is due, don’t you think?”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s how sports work.”  
  
“The Big 12 is competitive.”  
  
“Kansas lost at home this year. That’s embarrassing. And you can’t tell me the Big 12 is competitive when like...Iowa State exists.”  
  
“What do you have against Iowa State, Swan?” Killian asks, turning on her and really the smile is cheating. The whole month has felt a little like cheating, but Emma’s almost freakishly happy so she doesn’t feel like arguing that.

“Cyclones? C’mon, that’s a garbage nickname. And I had them going to the Elite Eight one year and they lost in the second round and I forgive, but I don’t forget.”  
  
He’s still laughing when he kisses her, the people forgotten and the games forgotten, or, at least, mostly ignored and Emma has to push up onto her toes to reach him.

She’s almost proud of herself when she doesn’t drop her drink.

She does, however, flinch when she hears something resembling a screech and Ruby Lucas teaches at the same school with Mary Margaret and she’s already talking when Emma and Killian break apart.

The words don’t make much sense – mostly because she seems to be racing herself to get them out – but Emma picks up on a few key words.

Boyfriend and relationship and _you two look so good together, finally_ make an appearance.

Ruby’s gone as soon as she arrived and there a Cyclone joke to be made there, but Emma downs the rest of her drink instead and Killian is a statue next to her, an arm still wrapped around her waist.

“That was terrifying,” he mutters, working a quiet laugh out of Emma and he smells like _him_ when she burrows her face into his shirt. It’s the single most absurd thing she’s ever thought. “Although,” Killian adds softly and Emma wonders what it feels like when a heart explodes inside a human chest. She assumes it feels like whatever it is she’s currently feeling. “She might not have been…”  
  
“Oh my God, you’ve got to finish your sentence.”

He laughs again and Emma’s heart might not be exploding, but it’s definitely beating faster and she’s lingering somewhere in the realm of hopeful. “We haven’t really talked about it,” Killian says. “But I’ve been kind of thinking it?”  
  
“That was a question.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Fuck, we’re so bad at this.”  
  
“Ah, it’s like playing against a zone. You start out cold, but then you work the ball around and you find a good spot to shoot from and you get a rhythm and then you beat Syracuse.”

“That’s the single least romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” Emma says with a smile on her face, Killian already nodding in agreement. “Except for the part about beating Syracuse. Because you know, fuck Syracuse.”

“Exactly. How about this then? I’d really like to date you with labels on some kind of indefinite basis for the foreseeable future.”

She probably blushes and flushes and several other synonyms, but she’s so goddamn charmed and endeared and those words sound very good in that particular order.

Someone cheers when someone makes a basket and that feels oddly appropriate.

“A little redundant at the end,” Emma mutters, fingers in Killian’s hair and her calves are starting to protest at the angle she’s put them in. She doesn’t move. “But, yeah, that sounds pretty good to me too.”

She kisses him or he kisses her and Mary Margaret is definitely the one cheering that time because she’s a sap.

They’re all saps.

Giant, emotional, basketball-watching saps.

And the rest of the night is a bit of a blur, baskets and booze and a few stolen kisses in the corner of the kitchen because time is cyclical and some joke about favorites and repeat performances. They spend most of _One Shining Moment_ making out.

Mary Margaret’s bracket, it turns out, is questionably close to being perfect and it’s her first-ever win, but Killian promises he doesn’t mind relinquishing his title to such a worthy opponent and David rolls his eyes when he mutters something about _winning anyway_.

“That’s my sister,” David growls.

It’s not really a threat.

They go back to Emma’s apartment – no discussion or argument, just another decision and it’s the first time she’s ever done anything like that, which also seems to be a bit of a trend and she’s not usually good the _unknown,_ but she’s not sure that’s what this is.

This is...a lock. The odds-on favorite and some kind of streak she’s more than willing to settle into for the previously mentioned foreseeable future.

She knows Killian’s just on the edge of sleep, hours later with a trail of clothes on the floor and his arm around her waist, when she flips, heart hammering and pulse racing and the words feel very big.

“Maybe next year we can come up with some kind of pre-bracket research schedule,” Emma says. “You know, like, some kind of joint effort.”  
  
Killian doesn’t open his eyes, but his lips twitch and his arm tugs her close enough that their foreheads touch. “Team,” he corrects softly. “It’d be a team effort.”  
  
And just like that – it’s different and the same and everything all at once. It’s goddamn fucking fantastic.

“Yeah,” Emma whispers. “I’d like that a lot.”

* * *

**Selection Sunday, Next Year**

“C’mon, Swan, let me see.”  
  
“You knew who I was going to pick two weeks ago.”  
  
“You’re biased.”  
  
“It’s their year!”  
  
“So I’ve heard.”  
  
“Who are you going to pick?”  
  
Killian shrugs, handing her the piece of paper with several different color inks and Mary Margaret is hysterical a few feet away.

“Xavier?” Emma asks and he shrugs again. David might groan. Or take another samosa out of the takeout bag and the Indian place a few blocks away is better than the one near Killian’s apartment.

Everything seems better now, but Emma might actually be biased about that and she and Killian might have definitely, absolutely _for sure_ picked that apartment because of the takeout choices nearby.

“I’ve got a feeling,” Killian says. “I know someone who’s very good at coaching from the couch.”

She rolls her eyes and it doesn’t make any difference. He knows he’s won – metaphorically and literally and, well, maybe it is Xavier’s year.

“Sap,” Emma accuses.

“Definitely.”  
  
“I kind of like it.”  
  
“Kind of?”  
  
“You’re fishing for compliments.”

“Nah,” Killian shakes his head and the bracket gets crumpled between them when he kisses her, mumbling something that sounds a hell of a lot like _I love you_ against her lips.

David definitely groans. “This is a group event!”

Emma grins, happiness clouding her vision, like that’s something that makes sense and they spend the rest of the night eating slightly cold takeout and trashing every team except the ones they’ve picked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kissing! As promised! Thank you guys for every click, comment and kudos. It's the best. And you're the best. And I'm so glad you enjoyed this basketball mess. Sorry to anyone who likes Syracuse, Duke or Villanova. 
> 
> Come flail (and/or yell about my basketball opinions) on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hi, hey there internet. This is @laurenorder's fault. She asked for some basketball fic and then edited some basketball fic and I like college basketball a lot. And I'm maybe not so secretly trying to write about every sport in the world as some weird personal challenge. 
> 
> There'll be a part two...probably Saturday or Sunday. Come flail on Tumblr or yell at me about my blatant and obvious hate of both Syracuse and Villanova: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


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